


Howl as Though the World was Ending (Watching the Sky Unwinding)

by XriotfallingX



Series: Longer and Louder (Long After You're Gone) [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Basically just a party, F/M, Humor, M/M, Mardi Gras, very light angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 22:31:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XriotfallingX/pseuds/XriotfallingX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Ill Fated Mardi Gras. (Which no one ends with their original clothing.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Howl as Though the World was Ending (Watching the Sky Unwinding)

**Author's Note:**

> The third piece of this... thing. Back in time just a little bit. Still unfortunantly un-beta read.
> 
> Title and lyrics from Weekend in Western Illinois, by The Mountain Goats

__

_yeah they howl as though the world were ending,_   
_and we are watching the sky unwinding_   
_and some of our promises were binding_   
_up here where our dreams take form_

 

~

 

New Orleans, 2015

Its mid February, past midnight, and the humidity still hangs thick over the city, over the thousands of people still crammed in the streets. Avery and Isley are leaning against the railing of the upstairs balcony of a bar, passing back and forth a bottle of absinthe and watching the multitude of colors and people swirl below them.

“I love a holiday that knows how to party,” Isley says, almost absently, leaning further over the railing to get a better glimpse of someone failing to do a beer bong just below, deep blue eyes shining in amusement. Her hair is a bit longer than she usually wears it, tips of the limp mohawk hanging into her eyes and the sides scruffy, smooth black.

“Like St. Patty’s day,” Avery says with his best horrible Irish accent, forgotten menthol cigarette hanging from between his lips, half burned away.

"Or New Years," Isley returns, turning to smile brightly at him, looking much younger than twenty seven. Somewhere between the fifth bar and the ninth she lost her dress and replaced it with a skirt and tube top combo composed entirely of cheap plastic beads.

"Cinco De Mayo," Avery says with a fond, nostalgic grin, and Isley mirrors it back at him. There are countless rumors that Avery and Isley are related, cousins, possibly siblings, maybe even twins, it's impossible to know because Avery doesn't use his real name and Isley's real name was sealed by the CIA when she ran off on them (maybe seven people in the world know that they actually are twins).

"So how are things?" Isley asks a couple minutes later, once the noisy group below the balcony has moved along down the street.

Avery shrugs easily, says, "oh, the usual. Living the American dream, as they say." He smirks widely at himself.

"I don't think you're what the founding fathers had in mind," Isley says, laughing.

"Pity, they just didn't know how to dream big enough," Avery says, winking in a ridiculously exaggerated way (made slow by his high level of intoxication).

Isley laughs at him. And laughs. And continues to laugh, so hard she has to set the bottle down on a table and put her face in her hands.

"Stop," Avery pouts, and she laughs harder. He kicks her in the knee, and she punches him in the shoulder, and they quickly devolve into flailing at each other like when they were children, and tossing back and forth insults, childish and not.

At some point during all of this, maybe between when Avery called Isley a 'booger eating whore' and she called him a 'fucking retard buttface,' Cruz came out onto the porch with them. He's still wearing the garish gold crown that he acquired at the first bar of the night, when he did six tequila shots without even flinching, perched jauntily on his head (only slightly darker than his golden hair).

"Oh hello," Isley says, drawing the word out with a clumsy curtsy, "I didn't see you there, your highness, I apologize for my course language." She giggles to herself, and Cruz snickers (the best way to tell that Cruz is drunk, he laughs easier).

"I thought you might be out here planning world domination, but you can't even get along," Cruz says, accent almost impossible to understand in it's thickness, shaking his head at them in disappointment.

"Don't lie," Avery says, waving an arm at Cruz and missing by several inches, "you just wanted to get in on our action."

"Duh," Cruz replies, and looks like he takes great pride in his use of american slang. Isley pats him on the shoulder proudly, and he throws a quick grin at her.

"In the new world order, you can be my slave," Avery says haughtily, crossing his arms over his chest.

"So, just like now?" Isley asks, smirking. Cruz outright laughs, and Avery shoots them both affronted looks.

"Both of you, get the fuck out. There is no room in my new world for either of y'all."

"That's fine," Isley says and grabs the forgotten bottle of absinthe off the table, "I'll just take this and go plan world domination with Lunden."

"The race is on!" Avery calls after her retreating back, and the sound of her laughter floats back to them (pure and light) before she disappears inside.

_"Hola,"_  Cruz says with a grin that could almost be described a goofy, once Avery turns back to him. The night is still loud around them, laughter and music hanging in the thick air.

"Yo," Avery replies, smiling back.

Cruz takes a couple steps closer, until he can reach out and push a couple strands of hair out of Avery's face. " _Are you not hot out here?"_  he asks.

"I'm from the south, Pardner," Avery replies (accent completely over exaggerated), snickering at himself as he does, and tipping up the brim of his cowboy hat.

_"This thing is ridiculous,"_  Cruz chuckles, touching the fake gator-skin fabric and knocking the hat further back over Avery's black hair.

"I'm sexy, and you're jealous." Avery says dismissively, swatting Cruz's hand away.

"Not jealous," Cruz says and pokes him in the flushed cheek. _"Come back inside."_

Avery stumbles and almost falls down the stairs back down to the bar, until Cruz grabs him by the nape of the neck and hauls him back to his feet. "My hero," Avery smirks up at him, and Cruz rolls his eyes, wrapping one arm around his shoulders to help keep him upright.

_"Knee okay?"_ Cruz asks.

"I can't even feel it," Avery replies happily as they reach the bottom of the stairs, "though I'm sure there will be a battle in the morning, to see if it, or my head hurts worse."

"Drink too much?" Cruz says, and it should sound patronizing, but instead he just sounds fond. There's a warmth deep in his green eyes, Avery can see it even in the dim hall between the stairs and the noisy, bright main room of the bar.

"Little bit," Avery admits, and then smirks. “Just like Cinco De Mayo, huh?”

_“Not yet,”_ Cruz says (eyes darkening), hands on Avery’s hips, shoving him backwards, into the bathroom.

"I see where you're going with this," Avery snickers. His vision blurs as he's spun around, and his back hits the door, slamming it shut.

"So clever," Cruz says as his knees hit the grimy floor, already tugging at Avery's belt. He digs his fingers into Cruz's shaggy hair, knocking the crown further askew, his breath coming fast.

When they finally exit the bathroom and wander back to the bar, Warren is robbing people blind at the pool table (charming enough that no one cares), and Lunden and Isley are screaming quietly at each other in the far corner, under a neon Fluer-Di-Lis.

“Am I back in high school?” Avery wonders out loud, and Cruz shoots him a strange look.

Warren finishes up the game he's playing, and the sad loser hands over his vest (a light brown, hippie looking thing), which Warren happily pulls on over his t-shit. It clashes horribly with the green plaid kilt he's wearing. He catches sight of them, and heads over to join them at the end of the bar, grinning like a loon and only stumbling once.

"Nice duds," Avery says, eyeing his outfit.

"Some people just don't know when to quit," Warren says happily, running a hand down the tassels on the vest. "But I was doing even better before Lunden just, totally bailed on me bro. That's not chill."

_"I don't think they're planning world domination,"_  Cruz says, eyeing the couple critically. The crowd in the bar has been thinning out slowly and they can actually see from one side of the building to the other, but it's still hard to hear anything over laughter and jazz.

"Is he making fun of me?" Warren demands.

"Yes," Avery says happily. "I know I'm going to regret this, but, you don't happen to know what's up with the lovebirds, do you?"

Warren shrugs one shoulder, tilts dangerously to the side (clearly drunker than he's trying to act), and then says, "I think, now I'm not sure, but I _think_ , it all started when Isley found out Lunden got shot."

_"Que?"_  Cruz says.

"Seriously?" Avery says skeptically.

"I don't fuckin' know dude," Warren grumbles, sliding unsteadily onto a bar stool, "that's the last I heard before Lunden abandoned me at the table. For all I know they're fighting about, fuckin', window treatments by now, man."

"Window treatments," Cruz snickers.

"Seriously, one little bullet wound?" Avery is still muttering to himself, dropping onto the stool next to Warren and waving over the bartender. Once they all have fresh drinks in their hands (all on Avery's tab), he bursts out with "who _hasn't_  been shot?"

"I haven't," Warren says, raising the hand not holding his beer. He ends up getting it tangled in the many beads hanging above the bar.

"Slacker," Cruz accuses and sips happily at his whiskey.

"When was the last time you got shot, Asshat?" Warren demands, tugging his hand free of a particularly stubborn necklace, showering them all with green beads and tiny alligators.

Cruz takes one of the plastic creatures out of his drink and makes it dive into Avery's (which had been gator free), as he says, "2006, Joey Baldini's restaurant."

"Good times," Avery says absently, most of his attention on pushing the alligator deeper into the depths of his multi-colored margarita.

"I think I heard about that, fuckin' mess, right?" Warren says, brushing beads out of his heavily gelled hair. He misses half of them.

"Huge fuckin' mess," Cruz says happily.

"You're a scary dude," Warren tells him, and Cruz grins wider.

In the corner, Isley shoves Lunden against the wall, he kicks her in the shin, and their arguing gets louder. It earns them a couple looks from groups around them, but everyone goes back to their own business soon enough.

"Oh god, I am back in high school," Avery mutters, and Warren and Cruz both turn to stare at him.

"Lunden get in lots of fights with his high school girlfriends?" Warren asks, "'cause that's not cool bro."

"No, no," Avery says, shaking his head, but he has to stop when it makes him dizzy, "no. Well, just the once, and she totally kicked his ass, but that's not the point. I just feel like I'm gonna read about this on Facebook later. I don't even use Facebook anymore!"

Warren laughs, and Cruz says "Facewhat? What?" Warren laughs harder.

"It's okay big guy," Avery says, patting his knee, "you lived under a rock, we know." (It's not far from the truth.)

"A rock with Mortal Kombat," Warren grumbles, glaring at Cruz.

"Don't be bitter," Avery tells him, "he gets us all. And I warned you not to bet on it. You have a problem."

" _You_  have a problem," Warren mutters, glaring at both of them now. Cruz is grinning like a smug asshole.

In the corner, Isley screams "fuck you and the vampire horse you rode in on!"

"What?" Lunden screams back, throwing his arms in the air. It makes his black cape billow, and Avery can kind of see where she's coming from, with Lunden's super pale skin and white hair. After several shouted sentences that they can't quite hear, Isley turns and storms out of the bar (her bead outfit making enough noise to beat the trumpets on the speakers.)

Lunden turns and stomps up to them, his feet making no noise on the stone floor. "She totally won that fight," Warren says, offering up his beer with a cringe.

"Shut up," Lunden immediately grumps, but takes the beer. He shoves himself onto the same seat as Avery, half shoving the other man off, muttering "fucking vampire horse."

"Rude," Avery whines. He braces his arms on the bar and pushes back until they can both fit on the stool in semi-comfort (childhood friends means they have no concept of personal space anymore).

"Dude, you look like Count Dracula," Warren points out.

"Fuck you," Lunden says and drops his head down on the bar, though he refuses to hand over the beer bottle when Warren tries to grab it from him.

"There there," Avery says, patting Lunden on the shoulder. He starts snickering before he can say anything else, and Lunden elbows him in the ribs.

"Hey man," Warren says, poking him, "don't take your anger out on the happy people, dude." (Warren drunk talks like a frat boy made a baby with a hippie.)

"Where's _your_  boyfriend, dude?" Lunden demands, voice muffled by his arm and the thick wood of the bar.

"I lost him... Somewhere." Warren says, waving his arm carelessly. He smacks the hanging beads, but manages not to get stuck again.

"How do you lose someone that massive?" Cruz asks (all dry and sarcastic), and Avery bursts into laughter. Cruz has to put one hand on Avery's shoulder to keep him from falling off his half-seat.

"He just wanders off man, I don't know," Warren says, "I can find him easy, watch this shit." He climbs up onto the stool, wobbling dangerously until he's balanced on his knees and able to see over everyone else in the bar.

"Please don't fall and kill us all," Lunden says, finally raising his head again.

"It would take more than a mild crushing to kill you assholes," Warren says, distracted, still scanning the room. (It would, it's a proven fact.)

"I don't even want to be crushed," Avery throws in.

"Shut up, there he is," Warren says, and then yells "Yo! Cady!" across the bar.

Cadillac comes strolling towards them, parting the crowd easily (over seven feet tall and built like a tree). "They have Dos Equis here!" Is the first thing he says, holding up the bottle like precious treasure. His accent is some strange clusterfuck of Texas and New Jersey, the effect of spending his whole life bouncing between the two.

"This guy knows what I'm talking about," Avery says happily, holding up a hand, "all the best things can be found in the South."

"My dad still gets this shit shipped up to Jersey," Cadillac grins and slaps his hand. The force of it knocks Avery straight off his stool, and Lunden takes the opportunity to take over the seat completely.

"Double rude," Avery grumbles.

"Sorry man, stop being so damn tiny," Cadillac says, laughing.

"Hey man, don't rag on tiny people, you're just a freak," Warren says, glaring up (way up, he's only a couple inches taller than Avery, though admittedly stockier), at him, and Cadillac holds up his hands in easy surrender. "Also, where is your shirt, babe?" Warren asks, poking him in the stomach, the only part of his bare torso that's not covered by hundreds of bead necklaces.

"How was I supposed to get this many beads while wearing a shit?" Cadillac asks reasonably. In the background, Avery and Cruz shrug and nod at each other (the logic seems sound). "Also, nice kilt, I'm into that," he says, not even a hint of sarcasm, grinning down at Warren.

"Of course you are, it matches your shorts," Lunden says, eyeing said apparel, also plaid and green, "you know punk's dead, right?"

Cadillac gasps dramatically, hand pressed to his chest, and then says "shut your fucking mouth, heathen."

"It just smells like it," Avery adds, punching Lunden in the shoulder (but gently, he's had a hard night).

"Yes, this guy," Cadillac says, pointing at Avery over everyone's heads easily, "this guy knows what I'm talking about." He chugs down the rest of his beer, like a period on the conversation, and then slides onto the stool next to Warren's. "New beer," he mutters, looking for the bartender. When he leans in over the bar, he gets hit in the eye with all the hanging necklaces. "Oh, sweet Jesus, why do you betray me, beads?"

Avery and Warren laugh and laugh and laugh, to the point that Warren puts his forehead down on the bar and takes deep breaths and Avery has to lean back against Cruz for support (trusting him not to let Avery fall). Cruz just snickers quietly like he does and wraps a secure arm around Avery's waist, and Lunden even manages a quiet chuckle, though his head is resting heavily in his hand.

"Very smooth dude," Warren wheezes out through his laughter, patting Cadillac on the thigh as the tall man flails backwards, almost slipping off his stool.

"Don't laugh at my pain. Assholes," he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"Now you know that's not gonna happen," Avery says, leaning up on his elbows on the bar so he can flash a winning smile down at him.

"It is his only joy in life," Cruz adds, dramatically, and Warren laughs so hard he gets the hiccups.

"Whoa, hey. Shut up," Avery says, turning to glare at Cruz. The man grins at him, raises an eyebrow, and cocks his head to the side. "Shut up," Avery repeats, glaring harder. Cruz tilts his head a little more to the side, smile growing, and Avery mutters, "I will punch you in the face," one hand raised in warning. (Cruz can hold an entire conversation with his face, though Avery is the only one who can read him.)

"How long have you know each other?" Cadillac interrupts, pointing a finger from Avery to Cruz and back again.

"Ten years," Avery replies easily, no thought required (it _was_ the year he had a price on his head, after all).

"Thirteen," Cruz says, and all eyes snap to him.

Warren opens his mouth to say something, but all that comes out is a hiccup so loud that his whole body twitches and several people around them look over. "Fuck me," he groans, and drops his head down onto the bar with an echoing thud.

Cadillac pats him on the back, and Lunden is snickering, so Avery turns to Cruz, face serious, and says (in Spanish, because it's the easiest way to have a private conversation), " _one day, were going to have a conversation about why that number is different."_

_"No,"_  Cruz replies with a small smile.

The door to the bar bangs open, and Lunden spins towards it instantly, hope written all over his face. When it's just a couple of severely drunk guys, he turns back to the bar and thunks his head down again.

"So," Cadillac says, drawing the word out for maximum awkwardness, "are we gonna talk about this?"

"Fuck no," Lunden says, voice muffled.

"Awesome," Avery says with a relieved sigh (feelings are not his strong suit).

"OK," Warren says, smacking his hands down on the bar, hiccups apparently gone, "enough of this. Let's drink. Lundy needs to drink."

"I'm not sure I need to drink."

"You do. You need tequila," Avery says.

"No!" Warren groans while Cadillac pumps a fist in the air and says, "fuck yeah!"

"More tequila? Really?" Cruz asks, but there's no complaint in his tone.

"You haven't even finished your margarita," Warren tries to point out, though he knows it's impossible to stop the train, once it starts.

"OK first," Avery says, holding up one finger, and Lunden actually looks up, "choking on tiny swamp creatures is not on my to do list for the evening, and even if it was, I have no idea where that lizard has been."

Cadillac bursts out laughing, and Lunden says "What." (One part curiosity, three parts horror.)

"Barkeep, tequila all around!" Avery calls, ignoring him. The bartender gives them a bemused look, but breaks out five shot glasses and leaves them with a bottle of top shelf tequila.

"Someone's gonna puke," Warren mutters, but accepts his shot.

"I'm gonna puke. On you," Avery says happily.

"I would love to see that," Lunden says wistfully. Isley doesn't come back that night, but Avery does throw up on Warren. It's almost a fair trade.

 

~

 

_we can taste fresh blood in our mouths again:_   
_there is no chance of getting enough of it,_   
_and we tally up all our possessions, we're going under._


End file.
